


Sit In Judgment: Anders

by Mikkeneko



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anders joins the Inquisition, Ensemble - Freeform, Faithful Inquisitor, Fluff and Angst, Forgiveness, Gen, Mentioned Iron Bull/Dorian, Religious Themes, Slice of Life, Suicidal Thoughts, character-driven
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2017-09-16
Packaged: 2018-07-22 13:56:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,294
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7441828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikkeneko/pseuds/Mikkeneko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anders is captured and brought before the Inquisitor for judgment, who responds in an unexpected way. Now the rest of the Inner Circle has to get used to this stranger in their midst...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Adaar

As they approached the front of the hall, clanking in chains, his guards tried to sweep his legs out from under him, force him to kneel or at least to bow his head. Though he had willingly allowed himself to be led this far, at this Anders resisted – even calling on the strength of Justice to steady him on his feet. Maybe it was petty, or vain, but the hall was full of people, and Anders had no intention of letting them see him bow. He would bow to no tyrant, never again. They could see him bloodied, beaten, and before the day was out they may see him dead, but they would never see him bow.

This was a moment that would be remembered for centuries, one way or another. The symbolism of it, Anders decided, was worth the indulgence.

He looked up at the throne – Maker, what a gaudy thing. It matched the rest of the decor of the fortress, which was everything you would expect of the seat of the Inquisition – statues of Andraste everywhere, stained glass friezes of scenes from the Chant, the whole nine yards. The throne itself was fashioned out of gold, in the shape of flames, as though the body that occupied the throne sat on Andraste’s pyre itself.

For a split-second, though, Anders thought that they had brought him before an actual statue of Andraste for judgment. He had a confused impression of white marble hair, granite skin, a shining halo of light surrounding a distant, terrifying expression of repose. But then the statue moved, head turning slightly as the eyes settled on him, and the image resolved itself.

The figure was not a statue but a Qunari woman; the skin and hair were marble-grey because they were grey, not because they were stone, and the ‘halo’ was a set of curving horns that curled about her head, sheathed in shining silver metal. Anders hadn’t met many female Qunari before now, and this first one – the Inquisitor herself – was somewhere between unearthly and terrifying.

Standing at the right arm of the throne was a pretty woman in gold samite and dark blue broadcloth, a sheaf of papers in her hand. She looked… anxious.

“On the dock today, the apostate Anders,” she announced. Her voice was tinged with an Antivan accent. “He is charged with… well, the full list would take a while, but principally he is charged with the premeditated and deliberate destruction of the Kirkwall Chantry, resulting in the deaths of seventy-two Revered Mothers, Sisters, and laypersons inside, as well as twenty-four civilians of Kirkwall caught in the blast, with willfully inciting rebellion and insurrection in the Gallows Mages…”

She was correct. The full list of charges took a while, and Anders listened with some interest. They’d added some new ones since the last time he’d checked a wanted poster. In fact, Justice was pretty sure they’d invented some new crimes just for the occasion.

“Do you have anything to say in your defense?” the woman asked, pulling his wandering attention back. She sounded almost concerned, as though his welfare worried her; he wondered how such a kind soul had ended up with the Inquisition. The impression was reinforced when her voice dropped low and she added, “The Inquisitor is well known for her divine mercy. If, perhaps, you were to give some expression of remorse or regret…”

“I cannot,” Anders interrupted her, his voice carrying throughout the hall, “for I do not regret.”

A tumult of outcry rose from the crowd, angry jeers and boos. Several voices from the back joined in a chant of _“Shame! Shame! Have you no shame!”_  but Anders ignored them all, looking up at the throne and the cool eyes of the Inquisitor sitting there.

“I cannot regret,” he said, his voice still ringing and carrying, “even if that lack spells my death. In truth, I never expected to live past that day in Kirkwall; I would have accepted my death as justice then, as I will accept it now. But I was spared then, and since then I have walked the world and watched my people rise in rebellion, casting down an unjust system and securing freedom for themselves, and insofar as my actions helped to midwife such a new age, I still do not believe I was wrong.

"You ask if I feel remorse and I do – every day I still wish I could have done better, to minimize the damage, or to spare the innocent. Every day I still wish I could have found a better way, a kinder way, to bring about the same future; I couldn’t see it then, and I still don’t see it now. But no, I do not regret.”

More angry shouts. Anders half expected the mob to surge forward and tear him apart on the spot, but apparently this crowd was too well-disciplined – or the guards too vigilant – for such undisciplined chaos. He stood tall and kept his eyes trained forward, back straight, chin up, watching the Herald of Andraste.

The Antivan woman let out a breath that was audible to Anders even over the noise of the crowd, and shook her head. “Then,” she said briskly, “if there is nothing more to be said –”

The Inquisitor interrupted her with an upraised hand, and such was the power of her presence that not only did her seneschal break off mid-sentence to attend to her, but the noise of the crowd died almost immediately. She drew the eyes of the crowd like a Pull of the Abyss, commanding attention even away from the spectacle that was Anders, and after a long moment of hushed near-silence, she spoke.

“From the beginning I have wondered,” she said, and her voice was surprisingly low and soft for such an imposing frame, “why Andraste chose me. I was never a follower of the Chant of Light; I was never much for religion at all, until Haven.

"But as time went by and the burden of destiny grew heavier, I could no longer deny that I was the chosen vessel of Andraste, and through her of the Maker’s will on this world. Why me, I often wondered. Why of all the people in the world, why a nonbeliever, why an outsider, why a Qunari? Why, o Creator and Father, did you choose someone like me?

"So many times I asked, and I heard only silence for my answer. I prayed in the dark of the night, and I received no answer. I even enlisted the aid of mages and spirits to call my plea to the world beyond, hoping that the words would reach the Maker’s ears, but there are no answers to be found in the Fade, only echoes.

"After a time, I began to think that perhaps the answer was not to be found in the next world, but in this one. So I began to watch. And listen. I, who knew nothing of the Chant or its servants, began to search for knowledge. I read many books; I listened to Revered Mothers and Sisters and Seekers and bards, and I traveled to many places that had been shaped by the Chantry over centuries of time, and I finally began to understand.

"At last I understood that I was chosen because the Chantry is  _wrong.”_   She brought down one fist on the arm of her throne, a report that echoed through the hall like a little explosion. “That over the centuries since Andraste’s sacrifice, it has been the place of small men and women to take that sacrifice and twist it, to co-opt our Lady’s work for their own ends, their own gains, their own power. That holy vestments are no guard against a corrupted heart, that beautiful words can sit on a lying tongue, and that all the gilt and incense cannot erase the crimes of history. Andraste chose  _me_   because she knows that the world must change, and I was to be her instrument.”

The Inquisitor stood up. It was a motion that seemed to go on forever; she would have towered over the crowd even without the dais, but with it she seemed to reach the heavens. Sunlight pouring in from the stained glass windows behind her caught on her silver-sheathed horns, wreathing her head in a crown of fire that made his eyes water.

Her gaze swept out over the crowd. “You could have brought this man before any court in the land,” her voice echoed out through the hall, “and any one of them could have given you the judgment you thirst for. But instead, you brought him to me.”

Her attention switched back to him, and her voice dropped to a low pitch. “You were brought to me,” she said, “over a long and thorny path, that I must see the Maker’s hand in. You were brought to me because if I am to carry out Her will on the land, I need others who can stand beside me. I need those with the strength, the courage, and the vision to change this world for the better.

"Will you serve me, Anders? Will you, the Apostate, return to the Lady’s side? Will you be a healer in my house, a warden at my back, and a voice of justice in my ear?”

It was no longer only the light, Anders realized, that made his eyes stream with tears. There was more noise from the crowd behind them, but it was muffled and distant in his ears; nothing that was behind him mattered.

“Yes,” Anders said, and he bowed to his knees before her.

* * *

 

~fin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A self-indulgent what-might-have been set in the worldstate of my Inquisitor Adaar playthrough. 
> 
> For my Adaar playthrough I wanted to try out the 'faithful/devout' options, but I just couldn't bring her to support the Chantry's excesses. So I ended up with an Inquisitor who was deeply personally religious but opposed to the institution. She also came much closer than my other Inquisitors at embodying the 'icon' of the Herald of Andraste, ending up somewhat remote and impersonal, imposing but infinitely kind. 
> 
> And I wondered what might happen if such an Inquisitor was faced with the problem of Anders. This was the result. Read on for more Anders and the Inner Circle shenanigans!


	2. Cole

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets Cole.

Cole was the first to visit him, in the cells below Skyhold.

Anders had hardly been locked in and left, torches burning at regular intervals pacing the shadows of patrolling guards, before the strange boy had appeared. He’d been startled, but something in the stranger sang to something in him, and he hadn’t called out for the guards.

Now he sat on the bench, leaning back with his eyes closed, as the boy – spirit – spirit boy chattered to him. Little of what he said made sense – in the proper way of sense at least – so he didn’t know how to respond, but it was better than being alone.

“They don’t understand,” the boy – Cole – was saying, gesturing emphatically. “Humans are themselves all the time, whether they do anything about it or not. But you’re different!  _We_  are different. It’s not enough to just  _be_  you, you have to  _do_  you, or else you become less. Haunted, hurting, hungry. You lose what makes you you, and it scares you to think of becoming the wrong you. So you had to act. You  _had_  to.”

“Compassion,” the word escaped Anders’ lips without conscious thought. He wasn’t sure if it was meant as address or description, or both in one. He found his own words for the next part, though; “I’d think you’d have more for my victims, instead of for me.”

Cole looked at him solemnly, pale blue eyes behind pale blond hair, looking as though he could see right through them. As though he could see right through anything, even walls, even hearts.

It took him a long time to realize that Cole was remaining silent, long enough that he began to wonder if something was wrong – when Cole spoke again.

“I knew a place like this once,” he said, his voice so quiet that Anders had to strain to hear. And yet, he could hear him perfectly. “Chains, stone, dripping. But there were no torches, not then. And there was a boy. A captured apostate – captured, beaten, tormented. Starving. Alone. Forgotten.”

Anders’ breath caught, his mind jumping all too quickly to crystallize the picture in his mind. Painted with sorrow, sympathetic agony, and a rage so strong and sudden it left him breathless.

Cole looked at him, looked right  _through_  him, his voice so small and soft in the great darkness. “He would have liked  _you_.  _You_ would have found him. _You_ would have fought for him.” Compassion’s voice broke. “ _You_ wouldn’t have forgotten him.”

“No,” Anders whispered, and the firestorm of rage collapsed; it made a solid heat within him, like a glowing forge, steady and powerful and unquenchable. “Never.”

* * *

 


	3. Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets Cullen. Again.

He met Cullen – or to be more precise, met Cullen again -- the day he was to be judged.

He’d seen the man hurrying down the stone staircase to intercept his honor guard – ‘honor guard’ was how he preferred to think about it, anyway; they held his chain leash, but his steps were firm and quick enough that they had no chance to drag him by it. It took him a moment to recognize the former Knight-Captain, no longer in Templar armor (and he’d done something strange to his hair,) but for a moment the sun was behind him and he could never fail to recognize that silhouette.

The whole group of them came to a halt at the bottom of the stairs, and Anders gave Cullen a slow sneering smile. “Good evening, Knight-Captain,” he said, false cordiality practically dripping from his words.

A frown pulled at Cullen’s face, and he unconsciously reached up to rub at the patch on his breastplate where the Sword of Mercy no longer sat. “It’s Commander now, actually,” he said icily.

“Oh?” Anders smiled wider. “I see you wasted no time finding a more comfortable lapdog position now that Meredith’s gone. I do hope you’ve found a better breed of tyrant to suck up to these days.”

Cullen glowered at him, then stepped to the side, clearing the way for the guard to continue on into Skyhold’s main hall – where waited, Anders was given to understand, the Inquisitor. In a way, a part of him was happy to see Cullen again; there’d been so many times back in Kirkwall that he’d bitten his tongue, and now there was no reason to keep silent ever again.

“This has been a long time coming, murderer,” Cullen growled, stepping forward into Anders’ space. “I mean to see you answer for your crimes today.”

“Oh?” Anders didn’t give ground; Cullen was bulkier, in his plate and shaggy ruff, but he still had several inches of height on him. “And when do you mean to answer for your own?”

Cullen’s scowl deepened. “Don’t even try to compare me to you, maleficar!” he hissed. “Whatever wrongs I might have done under the Chantry’s yoke, at least  _ **I**  _never murdered an entire building full of innocent people.” He stepped back, though it looked like it took an effort, and with a jerk of his chin indicated that the guards should hustle Anders onwards.

“Not,” Anders threw over his shoulder as they led him away, “for lack of trying on your part.”

If this was to be his last hour, at least he’d gotten in the last word.

* * *

 


	4. Blackwall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets 'Warden' Blackwall.

His first impression of Blackwall wasn’t much. They meet almost in passing, as he’s led past a motley mob of companions and advisors; Blackwall grunts in acknowledgement of the Inquisitor’s measured introduction, and mumbles some greeting Anders can barely even hear. It's only later that Anders finds out that Blackwall is the Inquisitor's lover, and privately wonders what in the world she sees in the man.

He doesn’t look like much, with his drooping facial hair and heavy eyebrows, shield and sword slung together over the back of the bench. Just another hired sword, Anders figures: he’s well aware of the value of a sturdy soldier in the front lines, but he’s not had much luck with befriending them in the past. If this Blackwall can follow orders and keep his no-doubt unpleasant opinions to himself, Anders thinks, then he’ll call it a win.

But there are depths to Blackwall which Anders didn’t imagine, a wealth of fierce feelings that he discovers almost by chance: when it happens, Blackwall doesn’t even know he’s there. He often visits Cole in the attic high at the top of the inn, the two of them alternating talking softly with long silences in which _something_  in him communes silently with something in Cole. It’s one of these long silences that is broken by voices floating up from the inn below; Sera and Iron Bull, who haunt the tavern most of the time, are sharing a drink with Blackwall, who stops by only rarely.

He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, doesn’t intend to intrude on a private conversation, until his own name is spoken – Anders,  _Anders_ – forcefully and with great vitriol. After that it’s kind of hard to ignore.

And it’s Blackwall, of all people, that is fervently arguing in his defense. “Intent matters,” Blackwall is saying, gesturing emphatically with one of the inn’s crusty loaves of bread. “It does matter. If everyone just did what they did out of selfishness and greed, then what kind of world would that be? The reasons why we do things, those reasons matter. He wanted to do good. He still wants to do good. Doesn’t that deserve a second chance?”

The Iron Bull rumbles something in response that Anders can’t hear – as big as he is, he seems to exert a lot of effort to controlling the volume of his voice. But it’s Sera’s voice, sharp and penetrating, that pierces the smokey haze to reach his ears. “Here’s an idea,” she says. “If your big grand plan for ‘doing good’ involves blowing up a friggin’ church, then  _DON’T DO IT!_  Step outside, chase a butterfly, have a good wank, just do anything else!”

“He's a Warden,” Blackwall argues. “He might have left the Order, but you can never leave that behind. Men like him… like us… who fight against the Blight are changed by it. You get used to doing things, terrible things, because you know the alternative is the ruin of the whole entire world. Because nothing you can do would be worse than doing nothing a'tall.”

It’s troubling. It’s not what Anders expected to hear; not from anyone at Skyhold, let alone Blackwall. But mostly it’s troubling because it’s the first he’s heard that Blackwall is even supposed to be a Grey Warden at all.

* * *

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Although these chapters were meant to be one-shots, I may actually follow up on this later -- specifically the implications of Anders knowing that Blackwall is not a Warden.


	5. Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets a Tevinter magister.

He got to know Dorian later, after he’d settled in to his new role at Skyhold a bit. Dorian spent most of his time in the library, also a place of intense interest to Anders, so it was only natural their paths would cross. Dorian was at first polite, but wary, chatting about airy nothings even as he kept his proverbial guard up at all times. 

Whether he disliked Anders in particular for some reason, or had just learned harsh lessons about being too trusting in general, Anders did not know. But it was clear to Anders that behind the disinterested facade, Dorian was a sociable, warm-hearted man who was lonely and adrift in a strange land. In many ways, he reminded Anders of himself in his own youth – well, himself, if he had been wealthier. And snobbier. And more fashion-conscious. And –

Much like himself, at any rate. 

A part of him wanted to despise Dorian for his shallow selfishness, but he knew from Dorian’s presence here that that wasn’t all there was to him. A part of him wanted to despise Dorian for being Tevinter -- a magister no less, symbol of all that was corrupt and evil about that empire -- but he knew just from speaking with Dorian that that wasn’t true of him either. In some ways, Justice made it easier; that part of him found it much easier to think of abstracts, categories, while leaving him free of hate for the individual actually before him.

Many evenings in the library together slowly brought down the barriers between them, and they talked about more than just missions or magical theory. After spotting a familiar book cover out of place among Dorian’s hoard, he discovered they had a shared interest in teeth-achingly terrible romance novels.

“Please never tell Cassandra, I’d never tell the end of it,” Dorian begged him, as though there were really any chance of Anders getting in a conversation with Cassandra again. “I’ve given her enough grief for her own reading preferences, but I admit – I must admit that these were fond relics of my own childhood. Imports from the South, you see, were the only place I could find that one could read about…” He trailed off, then cleared his throat. “Well. Interests that were not encouraged by my family and peers, to say the least. I have many fond memories of conjuring a spell-light under the covers to read long into the night.”

Anders nodded, attempting to smother down the last of his laughter even as he was filled with sympathy. He had many such memories of his own; not in his own bed, perhaps, but in the dark corners of the library where the older apprentices would hide the stashes of smutty novels. Although it had never been the smut itself that interested him – well, it did, just not as much as the pages written of tender, terribly sappy romance and devotion between two lovers. Sex was always available in the Tower; love, never.

“Strange, really,” Dorian said, playing with the edges of the book as a pensive expression crossed his face. “At such times I sometimes dreamed of running off to the south – finding myself a handsome rugged Avvar barbarian chief or Rivaini pirate king. Finding a place where I could be true to myself, and love and live freely. And yet, all these years later, here I am – and I’m just as much of a pariah here as I was back home.”

“I had similar fantasies about Tevinter when I was younger,” Anders said, almost apologetically. “A place where I could live free of Templars, where every man could be free to use his magic without a care. I gathered as I got older that the reality would have fallen far short of my expectations.”

Dorian gave an elegant, cultivated snort of disdain. “Oh, by  _far_ ,” he said witheringly, but the scorn died away in the face of the sadness. “Is that how it is everywhere? In Tevinter, I was despised for being an invert; in the South, I’m despised for being a mage. And look at poor fellows like Solas; a mage _and_ an elf, he's even worse off than you or I. Is there no place in all the world where one can go to live freely and at peace?”

Anders thought about it, sipping at the last dregs of the tea he’d been sharing with Dorian. “I don’t think that’s a place you find, Dorian,” he said quietly. “I think that’s the sort of place you make. And if you have to fight for it – scrape and kick and claw at the world until it makes way for you – then that’s all the more reason to fight harder, for those who will come looking after you.”

Dorian looked up at Anders, surprise written over his handsome face. After a moment, he broke out in a smile. “You know,” he hummed, “I’m starting to see what our dear Inquisitor likes about you.”

* * *

 


	6. The Iron Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets a Qunari mercenary captain.

He hadn’t seen much of The Iron Bull since the Inquisitor had recruited him. No – if he was being entirely honest with himself, he’d been  _avoiding_  The Iron Bull since the Inquisitor had recruited him. Anders would be the last one to question Dian Adaar’s judgment, but from what he’d heard the man was a mercenary sword (a profession Anders had never had much luck with,) a Qunari (a race Anders had never had much luck with,)  _and_  a spy. Dorian spoke often of Bull, and Anders knew him well enough to hear the respect and fondness behind the sarcasm, but it didn’t particularly move him to want to befriend The Iron Bull. And to be fair, The Iron Bull had made no effort to seek out his company, either. 

But the time of their happy mutual avoidance had come to a close, so Anders marched into the Herald’s Rest with his shoulders squared and his spine ramrod straight, not looking left or right (or up at the jeers and hisses filtering down from the second floor) until he stood before The Iron Bull’s table.

The Iron Bull had a plate of dinner – Anders hated to think how many nugs had died for that meal – and a flagon of ale that he was steadily working his way through. He didn’t bother to put either aside when Anders marched up to his table, although at least he had the decency to finish off his current mouthful before he looked up and asked: “Something I can do for you?”

No greeting, no friendly prefix to address him, but he hadn’t been spat on so far so things were looking up. “Not exactly,” Anders said, and took a deep breath. “Look, I doubt we’re ever going to be friends, but Dian wants you and I to both go with her out to Shayna’s Valley tomorrow, and I need to know whether we’re going to be able to work together.”

“Sure.” The Iron Bull shrugged carelessly. “Why wouldn’t we?”

“Well, I  _somehow_ get the feeling that you don’t approve of me,” Anders said acidly. “I need to know whether I can trust you at my back, or if you might feel the temptation to let that big hulking axe of yours "slip” in the direction of my neck.“

"Hm,” The Iron Bull buried his thoughtful grunt in another swig of ale. He put the flagon down on the table, and turned to look at Anders square-on. “Well, seems like I might have just as much to worry about from you.”

Anders blinked, startled. “How – do you mean?”

“It’s not like you make any secret of your feelings on mage’s rights,” The Iron Bull said, the understatement of the Age. “So it must really steam your buns to think of the plight of mages under the Qun.”

He wasn’t wrong on that. “Well –” Anders began, but The Iron Bull kept right on talking.

“And I’m Qunari,” he said. Anders had noticed before that he made an effort to keep his volume low, but when he wanted to talk over someone, that someone wasn’t getting a word in edgewise. “So what I want to know is, can I trust  _you_  at my back out in the field? Or maybe I’d be laid out on a slab with my guts in my hands and you told off to put me back together, and you might decide to let some things "slip,” yourself.“

"I would never –” Anders stuttered, incensed. “Okay, that? That is seriously insulting. Whatever my personal feelings on your politics, I have never, I would  _never_  deliberately hurt a patient, or let an ally be hurt. No matter what!”

The Iron Bull nodded. “Right,” he said. “Same goes for me. So we’re good?”

Anders stood for a moment with his mouth hanging open. It was an invitation to leave it there, but Anders had never been any good at letting sleeping hounds lie. His tendency to poke and prod and needle far past the point where he should have shut his mouth had its roots back even before the Tower; adding Justice’s single-minded focus to the mix hadn’t helped much. “It’s not exactly the same,” he protested. “Qunari or not, I’ve got no grudge against  _you_. Somehow I don’t think the same goes in reverse.”

“Look, I don’t make the decisions around here,” The Iron Bull said with a sigh. “The Boss does, and I trust her judgment. She says you’re good, you’re good. We’ve got no problem.”

“But you would, wouldn’t you?” Anders persisted.  It wouldn’t be the first time he’d worked with – fought beside – healed and helped a mage-hating bigot, but he’d still feel better if he  _knew_. “If it  _were_  your judgment, and not hers.”

The Iron Bull didn’t answer for a long moment, his expression almost meditative as he slowly chewed a bite of his dinner. It made him look almost bovine, a disarming, stupid expression that Anders knew perfectly well was camouflage for that dangerously sharp mind. “Well… you have to admit, you in your person kind of… embody everything that the Qun fears about mages,” The Iron Bull said slowly. “You ran away from your handlers, deserted your duties, you made a deal with a demon –”

“ _Spirit_  –” Anders protested furiously. If any place in the world ought to understand the difference between a spirit and a demon, it should be here.

But The Iron Bull proved just as difficult to interrupt as before. “ – in exchange for power, and then you went off and blew something up and got a lot of people killed,” he finished. “Honestly, it’s no wonder people would rather keep a close eye on mages so that sort of thing doesn’t happen.”

Anders was not going to argue on that point. He’d never tried to pretend otherwise. “I’ve never denied what I’ve done, or what I am,” Anders said heatedly. “But I’m only me. It’s not fair to judge all mages based on what one man has done.”

“I don’t. I judge ‘em on what an awful lot of them have done,” The Iron Bull replied. “Can’t throw a rock in the Hinterlands lately without hitting a blood mage of some sort. You gotta admit, plenty of people have plenty of reason to be scared of your kind.”

Anders ground his teeth. “It’s  _because_  my people are hated and feared that they are as they are!” he snapped. “If they weren’t hunted and persecuted, if they weren’t backed into a corner where they have to fight or die, then they wouldn’t make such desperate decisions!”

The Iron Bull mulled over that for a moment. “Bit of a chicken and the egg dilemma, isn’t it?” he said contemplatively. “How much are we defined by our core selves, and how much by people’s perceptions of us? That’s definitely one for the philosophers.” He took another drink.

And Anders knew, frustrating as it was, that that was all he was going to get to say on the topic.

* * *

 


	7. Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders reunites with Hawke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hawke’s not technically one of the Inner Circle _or_ an advisor; but he’s a temporary companion throughout the HTLA storyline, so that counts, right?

Everyone at Skyhold knew it when Hawke came back. He arrived like a bolt from the blue, descending on the fortress as swiftly and keenly as his namesake, but with a lot more swearing.

Anders couldn’t help himself; as soon as he heard Hawke’s voice in the main courtyard he dropped the herbs he’d been sorting and made for the door, his feet carrying him closer to the voice without any input from his head. Before he could even reach the door, it flew open and banged against the wall, and Hawke – clearly having been pointed in the right direction by some helpful soul – strode in.

Even now, looking at Hawke made Anders’ knees go weak. He looked glorious, silhouetted in the doorway with the bright white sunlight of Skyhold behind him, face set in a worried scowl. His eyes, though – when his eyes lit on Anders’ they lit up with such unabashed joy and relief that all other words were pushed aside.

They fell into each others’ arms at nearly the same time, and it was like no time had passed at all, so easily and automatically did Anders adjust his grip to fit into Hawke’s embrace. “Garrett,” Anders said, and tried to talk and kiss at the same time. “Garrett, thank the Maker, I thought I’d never see you again…”

Hawke was also trying to talk and kiss at the same time, with the result that they kept missing each other’s lips. “You’re all right!” A kiss on Anders’ cheek. “You’re all right.” A kiss on his nose. “I was so worried. I was so scared.” A kiss on his jaw, just barely grazing the corner of his mouth.

Anders gave up on kissing, for the time being, instead hugging Hawke so tightly that his arms protested the strain. “I’m fine, love,” he murmured. “I’m here.”

“And what in the Void are you doing *here* of all places?” Hawke pulled back, his expression suddenly angry. “Why couldn’t you stay hidden? We spent so much time keeping you out of sight… keeping you safe. Then I leave for a month and you walk right into the Inquisition forces with open arms?!”

Anders swallowed, apprehension over Hawke’s anger mixing with older, staler dread. “I got… Varric sent a letter, when you disappeared into the Fade,” he said. “You and the Inquisitor and Stroud. After that, there didn’t seem to be much point to… staying around.”

It still hurt to remember those days, how grey the world had gone, as if all color and meaning had been drained out of it. He could remember dimly, as if in a dream, walking out the door with Varric’s letter held in his hand, never looking back.

The irony of it was that if he’d stayed in place for just a few more days, a second letter would have arrived from the same source, full of assurances that Hawke had made it out safely and was on his way to Weisshaupt. But by that time, he’d already been on the road to Skyhold.

“Don’t say that.” Hawke clutched at him, looking scared. “Don’t tell me that I’m all there is that keeps you from – from hurting yourself. I thought you were doing better, after Kirkwall. I thought _we_  were better.”

Anders sighed. “We were. I was,” he said. “I know it’s hard for you to understand…”

“You’re damn right I don’t understand! They might have killed you!”

Anders cut him off with a shake of his head. “Garrett… do you remember back in Kirkwall…” He hesitated for a moment, a shadow of red smoke and flickering flames falling between them.

“Yes,” Hawke said, his voice a bare whisper.

Anders bit his lip. How could he say this without making Hawke feel like it was his fault? “You said then you couldn’t judge me.”

Hawke shook his head. “How could I? I loved you. I *love* you.” Anguish edged his voice. “I couldn’t.”

“But someone had to, love,” Anders said gently.

“Why? Why did that matter so much to you?” Hawke said, anguished.

“To me… but mostly to Justice.” Anders sighed. “It wasn’t right for me to run from my fate. He allowed it, but it hurt him. It was killing him. And me.”

“And now it’s all fixed? Just because some Vashoth woman on a throne said the right words?” The words were angry, almost spiteful – but Anders could hear the hurt question behind them. How could this Inquisitor have given Anders peace of mind – peace of spirit, really – when he, Hawke, could not?

“Not just anyone, Garrett. The Inquisitor,” Anders tried to explain. “The Herald of Andraste. If anyone had the right to speak in Her name, she did.”

“I suppose…” Hawke said slowly. His shoulders slumped down with a sigh as he accepted it.  "You were always the believer, not me.“

In the next moment he was hugging Anders tight again, pulling him close in a frantic embrace. "I’m just glad you’re safe.”

“Yes,” Anders said, pressing himself into Hawke’s arms as though to block out all the world outside of them.

“It’s over now,” Hawke said, half to himself.

“Yes,” Anders whispered.

“You’re here, you’re with me, you’re all right…”

“Yes, yes, yes…”

Trying to talk and kiss at the same time was a recipe for failure at both. But once they both stopped trying to talk, the other went much better.

* * *

 


	8. Vivienne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets Vivienne, without ever actually meeting her.

Properly speaking, Anders never did meet Vivienne du Fer face to face. She hadn't been in the courtyard during the first round of introductions; he found out much later that she'd sent a witty, indirectly insulting note declining the Inquisitor's summon that day. She never came along in the sortie parties accompanying the Inquisitor when Anders was a part of the group; she never ventured into the part of the castle in which his infirmary was based; and somehow, she always seemed to have dinners or tours or other events scheduled to which Anders was not invited.

He didn't particularly mind the absence. From everything he'd heard, First Enchanter du Fer was exactly the kind of Chantry collaborator that had done their own part (albeit secondary and indirect -- he had no intention of letting the Templars and the Chantry off the hook for any blame that was rightfully theirs) in enforcing the tyranny of oppression that had stifled magekind in the South for so long. And though he didn't quite share Hawke's conditioned aversion to parties and society events, he didn't feel their lack, either; as long as sufficient food filled his belly and a roof kept the snow off, other concerns preoccupied his mind.

 

His own duties at Skyhold kept him more than occupied enough. Running the infirmary, attending to it personally on the days when the patientload was heavy (usually when Inquisition troops were returning from a sortie or mission) and delegating it to his handful of assistants when it was not. Accompanying the Inquisitor on missions that were deemed especially dangerous, risked encountering darkspawn or rebel mages whom Anders might hope to persuade to their cause, or hoped to bring medical relief to a stranded outpost or sickened village. 

 

When nothing was more pressing he spent his time in the tavern (if Enchanter du Fer ever ventured there, he'd never seen her) talking with Cole; visiting the Mage Tower (where Enchanter du Fer technically resided, but she kept separate and luxurious rooms there outside of which he'd never seen her) consulting with Fiona or Solas; in the stables (where Enchanted du Fer never ventured) passing time with Blackwall; or his own rooms (where he certainly wouldn't  _expect_   Enchanter du Fer to venture) spending tender moments with Hawke.

 

His days were full enough. He had a cause again, diverged yet still conjoined with his older ones: to defend the world, to hold back the Blight, to uplift the mages, to reform the Chantry. To keep his most important people safe, healthy and close.

 

So he thought very little of the absence of Enchanter du Fer from his Skyhold experience, until Adaar came to his infirmary door one day with her face dark as grey thunderclouds.

 

"Anders, I'm so sorry about all this," she said, somewhat to his confusion. "I had no idea that she was doing all this behind my back -- never openly  _saying_   it was me who requested it, of course, just carefully  _implying_ it was on behalf of the Inquisition --"

 

"I never doubted you," Anders assured her, still having no idea what it was she hadn't been responsible for.

 

Adaar sighed. "Anyway, I've put a stop to it," she said. "I'll have the steward move your original furnishings back to your quarters tonight, and the broken ones thrown out. The quartermaster will outfit you with proper gear tomorrow. The cooks and servants have strict orders not to tamper with your food any more, and you can believe I've had a word with Vivienne about using petty tricks to bully and torment one of my invited guests!"

 

"Ah," Anders said. 

 

Adaar departed after another round of apologies and reassurances for Vivienne's little machinations.  Anders didn't quite have the heart to tell her that she needn't have bothered; he simply hadn't noticed.

 

* * *

* * *

~tbc...


	9. Sera

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders meets Sera.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for graphic descriptions of injury.

 

It was hard for Anders to truly say what his _first_  meeting with Sera was like. Technically, the first time they'd met face to face was when he was being introduced around Skyhold like a new exhibition, led around the courtyard from advisor to companion to companion. He remembered seeing Sera under a tent, her eyes drilling into him, responding to the Inquisitor's pleasant introduction with only a single loud, rude noise. 

That set the tone for most of their interactions, really. They never talked face to face; most of their contact came when he was crossing the courtyard at Skyhold while Sera was out on her roof, her presence made known by loud derisive jeers or insults from above. The young elf did not exactly solicit conversation; her words were flung down like missiles, sometimes accompanied by actual missiles of rotten fruit or dirt. 

For his part Anders was happy enough to avoid her; he'd never had much luck with elves. 

Until one day when he was in the infirmary labeling bottles from the latest potion batch, a commotion from out in the courtyard heralded the arrival of one blonde, upset, highly agitated elf. 

"Sera?" he said, startled. She grabbed for his arm, and he barely avoided dropping the potion bottle in his hand. 

"You're a healer!" she blurted out. 

"Yes?" he hazarded, but his reflexes were already kicking in, and he was moving towards the door. Sera didn't seem to be injured, no blood, no burns, and the commotion had started outside, which meant that his patient was probably outside too. 

"So _you heal!"_ Without another word she grabbed again, and this time he let her take hold of his wrist to tow him along. Out of the infirmary, down the steps at a breakneck pace, through the courtyard, into the kitchens and through the tunnels to a part of the castle that he had only visited once or twice before. And now he was running ahead under his own power, pulling against her grasp, because he could hear the screaming from up ahead. 

"Get out the way!" Sera yelled as they approached, and the crowd of people parted with alacrity to let him through. He took it all in a freeze-frame vision: trashed workbench, spilled liquids, broken glass, splintered metal. The small body on the ground, writhing and screaming, left hand clutching the right wrist. The acrid scent of blood, of burned flesh, of… lyrium? 

He skidded forward and dropped to his knees beside the patient -- up close he recognized her, dimly, as the little dwarven Arcanist that Adaar had introduced him to a few weeks ago. Dara? Dana? They hadn't crossed paths much, as she didn't go on missions and he didn't often venture to this part of the fortress. 

The pattern of cuts and burns, centering on the workbench, spoke of an explosion. She'd been working with something volatile, and it had blown up in her face… in her hand. Her face was bleeding from a dozen small cuts, red and blotched from the force of her screams, but the damage was all in the hand. 

He grabbed the dwarf's hand, pulling it away from its tight protective clutch to her body into the light, and peeled off the shredded remains of a thick leather glove to fling into the corner. His stomach turned despite all his healing experience at what he saw: the hand was mangled, a ruin of bloody meat and burns streaking up the wrist and arm, and _something_   driven in the palm still crackled and spat like vicious acid -- 

If he hadn't known Sandal back in Hawke's estate in Kirkwall, he might not have reacted so quickly; as it was, he slammed his mana down on the girl's hand in the most tight-focused, concentrated anti-magic burst he could narrow down to such a small space. The vicious red light sputtered and went out, and Dagna's continuous screams tailed off to a sudden sobbing gasp. 

In the wake of the screaming the undercroft felt almost silent for a moment; he could hear trickling liquid and tinkling glass, the somehow muffled voices of the others. "What's wrong with her? What's wrong?" Sera was demanding, from somewhere beyond his sphere of attention. "What's hurt Dagna? Why haven't you healed her?" 

"What happened here?" Anders said, even as he summoned deep cold to his hands and focused it on Dagna's injured hand. It would reduce swelling, soothe the burn, and numb the nerves for the next stage of healing. 

Tears leaked from the corner of Dagna's eyes. "I - I was working with a sample of r-red lyrium --" she gasped out. "R-research, to try to counter S-Samson's armor --" 

"It exploded?" Anders asked, steering the conversation towards the parts relevant to him. He wasn't interested in the details of Dagna's research right now, though the mention of red lyrium left him cold; he needed to know the sequence of events. "And then what?" 

"And then it _b-burned,_   so… I tried to put it out with wu-water, but then the water just _boiled_ …" 

He could see the scald marks the water had left up her wrist and arm. "Relax," he told her, as he began trying to pry her hand open. "I'm going to help you. I'll do my best." 

It would take his best, too, he realized as the bloody ruin of her palm was revealed. The explosion could not have done more damage if a grenade had gone off in her hand. Bad enough that the glass had shattered, shards forced into her palm; it looked like several of the finger's tendons had been severed. But shards of red lyrium had also become embedded under the skin, still smoldering with a sullen light despite the force of his magic dampening. The exposed flesh and muscle was horribly burned, weeping pale yellow pus from peeling skin, and blackened blood crusted the edges of the wound. 

What a mess. "Relax," he told her again, more for his own benefit than hers. "Hold on to something. Maybe find something to bite." 

And then he turned all his attention to the hand. 

It took a long time to even clean out the wounds to prepare them for healing; there was no chance at all of a successful healing if red lyrium still contaminated the wound. On several occasions it took small, modified Force spells to dig shards of glass, scraps of burned leather or flakes of lyrium out of the deeper cuts, and the lyrium kept wanting to burst back into life despite all the dispelling he could do. He had to throw them to the far end of the Undercroft, following them with a burst of freezing magic to shatter them into dust before they were fully silenced. 

At last he could really set to work, stitching the tendons and ligaments back together with a careful application of spirit magic, mending nicked arteries and severed veins. Healing the muscles and skin as delicately as possible so as not to cause a snarl or tear in the fibers. Hands were so fragile, he'd learned that back in Kirkwall. Even a small carelessness could cause a knotted scar that would rob the fingers of their dexterity, potentially costing a skilled artisan her livelihood. 

When he was finally finished, washing away the ugly scalded streaks up the arm with soothing waves of blue magic, he was drained nearly dry. He looked up to see Dagna's face streaked with tears, a leather belt between her teeth; her head in Sera's lap, Sera's hands both clutching Dagna's left. 

"There," Anders said, unable to keep the exhaustion out of his voice. Red lyrium was  _nasty,_ and without his prior experience in healing people exposed to it, he wasn't sure he would have recognized it in time. "I've done as much as I can." 

"Thank you," Dagna said, her voice wobbling a bit. She tried to sit up, despite Sera's fussing. "Will I... My hand..." 

The question trailed off, but Anders could guess what she was most worried about, having faced the same question a hundred times from craftsmen and workers in Kirkwall. "You should have full use of your hand," he assured her. "Rest the arm completely for a day or two, and don't try to pick up any heavy weights with it for at least a month. You'll have some interesting tan lines for a while, but there shouldn't be any scars." 

Dagna began to cry, shoulders heaving with relief. This too was a familiar enough reaction to Anders, but it drove Sera into a frenzy. "Now see what you've done!" she said angrily. "Get away from her! Get out!" 

That was gratitude for you. Anders rose and took a few more minutes to make sure that the fragments of burning lyrium that he had discarded on the stone floor were thoroughly neutralized, and wearily took his leave.

  

* * *

 

 

By the next day he'd finished labeling the bottles and was carefully decanting his latest batch of potion into them -- not too much, or too little, to keep the dose consistent between each one -- when Sera came bursting into the infirmary again, the door banging against the wall behind her. 

Anders came on alert. "What is it? The wounds didn't re-open, did they?" 

"You!" Sera pointed an accusing finger at him. "What d'you think's the big idea?" 

"They didn't re-open, then." Anders relaxed, losing some interest in the conversation when it didn't look like there was a medical emergency on hand. He finished pouring out the current bottle. "You're welcome, by the way." 

"No I'm not welcome! I'm pissed!" She stamped her foot on the flagstone floor. "Think I should just forget all the rotten shit you did because you pranced in with your fancy fixing magic? Big man of the hour, flowers and garlands, forget about the big hole in the ground and fruit thrown at your head sort of thing? That's not how it works!" 

It wasn't the first time random residents of Skyhold had stopped by his office to yell at him, either. But usually their accusations followed a more predictable format. "So you're mad at me because I healed your friend?" 

"No! Of course I want Widdle to be okay!" She glared at him. "How stupid are you that you just don't get it? You were supposed to be evil! Big black cape, twirling mustache, blowing up nuns for a laff! You were supposed to be a piece of shit, because that meant that I could treat you like shit, and that's how it was supposed to be! Now it turns out that you're maybe _not_ completely a shit, and that makes _me_ the shit for being a shit to _you_ instead!" 

Silence hovered in the infirmary as Anders tried to parse this. Slowly he said, "So you're mad at me because... I'm not completely a shit?" 

"YES!" Sera shouted at the top of her lungs. 

While Anders tried to work out how to feel about this, Sera began to pace. "People like you, with your grand plans and big visions, you don't _care_ about how many people you mow down in your wake. You aren't _supposed_ to care." 

Anders shrugged, looking down at his hands as he sealed off the potion bottle and put it with the others, picking up a fresh one. "Maybe you don't know as much about me as you think you do." 

"Pff! So you've got reasons, so what?" Sera scoffed loudly, before pitching her voice in a nasal, exaggerated imitation of a Ferelden accent. " 'Oooh, I'm so misunderstood, nobody understands my deep brooding thoughts.' So you had a shitty childhood? Big fucking deal! Loads of people had shitty childhoods but they don't go off and blow up a building full of kids!" 

Anders slammed the glasses back against the workbench and rounded to face her. "Sera, what in the Maker's name are you talking about?" he demanded.

For the first time he'd known her, Sera actually hesitated. She opened her mouth, then closed it again, and he could see an unfamiliar doubt in her eyes. "You uh... Kirkwall's a city, innit?" she said, her voice having lost some of its vitriol. "City's got kids, kids don't have a home, the chantry takes in people with no home, _you_ blow up a chantry. Stands to reason, doesn't it?" 

Anders couldn't stop a bitter laugh. "You've obviously never been to Kirkwall." 

"So what? One city's the same as another," Sera exclaimed. 

"Kirkwall was different." Anders frowned at the memories. "Yes, of course there were street kids and orphans in Kirkwall. I should know because most of them ended up in my clinic, one way or another. There were dozens of them underfoot in Darktown at any given time. Lirene, Selby and the others, we did our best to provide for them. 

He looked Sera squarely in the eye. "But _never_ in all the years I lived in Kirkwall did I see a single one of them in the Chantry. That wasn't something the Kirkwall Chantry _did_. There was no room for the poor and suffering in among the golden statues and expensive candles." 

"You're lying!" Sera objected. "That's… that's what people like you do, you lie to make yourselves look better." 

"You can ask Varric if you don't believe me," Anders said wearily. "It was his home too, and he certainly hates me enough these days that he has no reason to lie for me." 

Sera's frown intensified, her expression shifting minutely as she struggled with this. At last she crossed her arms over her chest and let out a huff of air. "That still doesn't make it okay!" she said. "Loads of people still died 'cos of you." 

"Yes." 

"Then why did you do it?!" she demanded. 

"Because..." Anders sighed. "Because I _do_ care. Because sometimes, you do terrible things _because_   you care, because the alternative -- doing nothing -- is worse."

Sera scoffed again. "Nug shit!"

"Think so?" he raised a sarcastic brow at her. "Ask your friend, the Inquisitor. I have a feeling she's learned a thing or two about doing things she didn't enjoy, because the alternative was worse."

Sera glared at him one final time, then stormed out.

 

* * *

 

 

That seemed to be the end of it; at least, she didn't come into his office again. But the jeers and dirt-throwing from the second story of the tavern ceased, and one time a week later, he opened the door to find a pile of ripe fruit on his doorstep.

That, he supposed, was more than he cold have hoped for.


	10. Blackwall II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The consequences of Blackwall running headlong into a real-life Grey Warden.

 

Blackwall confused him. His first impression of the man had been of a gruff, humorless, not-too-bright hired sword; good for holding the lines in a formation but not for much else. It had been a surprise to hear Blackwall openly defending him in the Herald's Rest at Skyhold, and even more of a shock to hear him referred to as "Warden" Blackwall.

Because Blackwall wasn't a Warden. Or… was he? Anders couldn't help but doubt himself. It had years since he'd been around other Wardens; not since encountering Stroud in passing during the Qunari invasion of Kirkwall. That meeting had been so quick, so stressful, that he could hardly remember whether or not he'd sensed the Taint in them.

Was it possible that over the years he'd somehow… lost the trick of it? So much about him had changed. Maybe Justice was blocking his perception somehow. Maybe his body had altered so much that he was no longer a true Grey Warden himself. He didn't think that was how Grey Wardens worked, but how would he know? Everything he knew about the Wardens had come from the Warden-Commander, in the brief months they'd worked together. Amell herself freely admitted that her training had been scanty and unconventional, since her mentor had died almost immediately after her Joining. Who was he, really, to say who else was or wasn't a Warden -- a runaway, deserter, knock-off cheap replica of a Warden himself?

So he kept his uncertainty quiet. At first. As the Inquisition campaign marched on he found himself spending more and more time with Blackwall; Adaar brought Blackwall more than any of the other warriors. While she didn't actively get involved in scraps between her Inner Circle, she did have a diplomat's sense for who could and couldn't work well together. Anders came along together with Solas and Dorian, often; Vivienne and Cassandra, never; Sera and the Iron Bull, rarely. And Blackwall always.

They'd come out to the Storm Coast, partly to chase down a band of marauding bandits and partly in response to rumors of darkspawn coming out of caves in the cliffs. Anders steeled himself against encountering them with a grim resignation; Blackwall, by contrast, seemed to work himself up into a near frenzy of excitement and anxiety against the prospect. "It's a Warden's duty to defend the world against darkspawn," he repeated over the course of the day, enough times that it almost sounded like a mantra. "The world needs us for this."

At first they encountered them only a few at a time, in singles and pairs in shallow caves or out on the stony beach. There was no particular need for Warden senses, since he heard the unpleasant chittering in the back of his mind no sooner than they could all spot the dark, oily shadows creeping along the sandy stone. Adaar consulted with them both about the proper measures for sealing the cracked earth, eventually agreeing to block the passages temporarily with stone and wood blockades, then mark the locations with a flag for Inquisition masonry teams to come out later to build real doors.

Further north along the coast they came on a real lair at last, a dark, dank cave series that extended far back into the cliffs. Adaar carried a torch high over their heads, which sputtered out an uneven circle of golden light beyond which was only blackness.

Anders stared out into the darkness. "They're out there," he reported, feeling the unpleasant scratching in his head.

"This is definitely the sort of place they'd be," Blackwall agreed, hitching his shield up higher. Anders glanced at him sharply.

"How many do you make out?" he said, trying to keep his voice casual. He could sense them, muddled smudges of deeper dark against the darkness, like inverted fireflies; five smaller ones and one bigger, a stronger and more malevolent force of evil. An emissary perhaps, or an ogre. Maker, he hoped not an ogre.

"No telling," Blackwall replied gruffly. "Could be a whole horde come up from the deep roads. But we've only been encountering a few at a time so far, so there's probably not more than two or three out there."

Anders stared at him. "You… can't sense them?" he ventured. "My Warden-Commander always told me that most Wardens get better at it the longer they've been a Warden; you've been Joined longer than I have, right?"

Blackwall looked aside, pretending to look out into the darkness -- in the wrong direction, Anders couldn't help but note -- and his voice was distinctively evasive. "Well, every Commander has their own way of doing things," was all he said.

The sensation of darkspawn sharpened suddenly -- that could only mean that the layer of shielding stone between them had dropped away. Anders turned sharply down the nearest stone corridor and loosed a fireball into the darkness. An inhuman screech followed the detonation of flame, and the fight was on.

More fighting followed, and an exhaustingly long trek -- thank the Maker, Adaar did not insist on dragging them into the Deep Roads -- back to Skyhold. Throughout it Anders held his tongue about Wardens and Darkspawn when talking the Blackwall. He was sure of it now: Blackwall was not a Grey Warden.

 

* * *

 

 

~tbc...

 


	11. Cole II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders agonizes over what to do. Cole, of course, wants to help.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of Cole's lines are from the game, particularly the "sky is rainier" line. Not everyone may have gotten that line in the game, but it does definitively establish that Cole knew the truth about Blackwall long before anyone else.

 

Surety offered no clear course of action. Anders paced in the infirmary, on his return, trying to think. What should he do? What could he do? Surely of everyone at Skyhold, the mass-murdering apostate revolutionary was the least placed to level accusations at anyone, let alone the Inquisitor's beloved.

Yet at the same time, he had to say something. Didn't he? He knew what Blackwall was not, but he didn't know what he was. Who he was. What else was he lying about, and why? Anders didn't think he had any ill intentions towards Adaar -- indeed, he never seemed less than helplessly infatuated in her presence -- but he just didn't know. If he was lying to her about this, then what else was he lying about?

It was more than that. Adaar, the advisors, they all looked to Blackwall as a Warden to help them shape their strategies; their responses to Warden matters or problems involving Darkspawn. Blackwall clearly knew far less about Wardens than even Anders did. If they relied on answers from Blackwall to shape their strategy, and that foundation turned out to be less than solid…

He had to tell someone. But who? And how? He had few friends in Skyhold that would tolerate him, fewer who would accept his judgment on any matter. Almost anyone he could tell would disbelieve him; at best, tell him he must be mistaken, at worst, accuse him of malicious lies. The Tale of the Champion certainly hadn't stinted in portraying him as a paranoid, twitching wreck. Even if they didn't think he was lying, they would probably think he was crazy. Andraste's pyre, maybe he was crazy. Maybe it was all in his own head…

"You aren't," a voice said, and Anders looked up sharply to see Cole sitting on one of the cots.

"Cole," Anders said. The spirit boy's sudden appearance startled him, but it subsided quickly. It took him a moment to get his stream of thought flowing again, and to try to integrate Cole into it. "I'm not… wrong? About Blackwall?"

Cole nodded, the brim of his wide worn hat fluttering a bit. "He says I'm crazy even though he knows I'm right, because he wants me to be wrong," he says. "Insane means he doesn't have to listen, no one does. That's why they call you crazy, too."

That was an unsettling thought -- many of Cole's thoughts were unsettling. But for now, Anders was more concerned with the question of Blackwall. "So he's not a Grey Warden?"

The boy shook his head. "Grey and grieving, denying, deceiving," he said, a dreamy sing-song tone entering his voice as it often did when he was listening to the thoughts of others. "But all the grey is on the outside, for him. It's not in his blood, not like it is with yours."

"I knew it!" Anders said triumphantly. Then he frowned. "But there really was a Blackwall who was a Grey Warden. That means this must be another man. If he's not Blackwall, then who is he?"

Cole cocked his head to the side, as if listening. "The name breaks free, pulls the pain with it," he said finally. "A black wall to shield the self when the sky is rainier."

Anders sighed. Cole's words were nonsense to him. He knew that wasn't true, that Cole's words were always meaningful, but he lacked the context to make it make sense. Perhaps the man's true name didn't matter, or at least didn't matter right now. "You're sure?" he said. "He's been lying all this time?"

"Yes," Cole said. "I can hear him because he's full of pain. His own, and others. He's sorry he did it, but he can't undo it now. I have always heard him."

His frown deepened as he parsed that. "Wait," he said. "If you've known all this time, why haven't you said anything?!"

Cole looked confused. "I've said many things?" he said. " 'One by one they follow me, laughing, drowning, into the sea.' That's a song. Singing is saying, isn't it?"

Anders brushed aside Cole's tangents with a sharp impatience. "I mean to the Herald! If Blackwall isn't who he says he is then she needs to know. He could be a danger to her."

"He isn't," Cole insisted. "I would know."

He probably would know. Anders frowned, pacing back and forth across the worn flagstones. "But she still needs to know," he said finally. "She deserves the truth. She's bedding the man, for Andraste's sake! If he's wooing her under false pretenses that's as bad as treachery. You should have told her the truth long ago!"

"If she knew he was lying to her, she'd be so sad," Cole said reasonably. "The truth would hurt her."

"Well, yes, but…"

Cole looked straight at him. His eyes were so pale behind his bangs, unwavering, unblinking. "You want me to hurt her?"

Anders understood. Cole was Compassion, a creature whose being was dedicated to absolving pain. Asking him to inflict it on someone he cared about, even in the name of the greater good, was anathema to all he stood for.

He sighed. "Sometimes it's necessary, Cole. A small hurt sooner to prevent a bigger, worse one later on," he said, making his voice gentle. "It's like a wound. It might hurt to treat it now, but if you wait it could get infected, or even gangrene. Sometimes you have to hurt in order to heal."

Cole nodded absently, his gaze wandering off to the side again. After a moment he spoke again. "Lance the boil, let all Thedas see the rot that lies within the Circle. Purge the infection before it spreads any further. Cauterize the wound, cleanse it with fire." He looked directly at Anders. "It has to be true, so that you can live with what you did."

Anders winced. "That's close, Cole, but you have it backwards," he said, keeping his voice steady. "It was because it's true that I had to do what I did."

Cole looked down. "I understand but... I don't want to hurt her," he said in a soft voice. "She's my friend, and she already hurts so much."

It would have to be him, then. Somehow he'd always known it would be. "Then I'll do it," he said, and tried not to let his voice ring hollow. "But I'll need your help."

 

* * *

 

 

to be continued...


	12. Adaar II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anders brings the bad news to the Inquisitor.

 

Standing at the bottom of the staircase looking up, Anders did his best to gather his nerves. Cole hovered somewhere behind him, a silent supportive force, but Cole had made it clear that he would not push this forward -- this was Anders' to do. 

What was he afraid of, really? That Dian would blame him, throw him out of the Inquisition or worse? No, that wasn't the sort of woman she was -- but even if she didn't blame him overtly she always would, a little. When you blasted apart someone's life there would always be that little bit of resentment, no matter what surface apologies passed. Varric had been proof enough of that. 

He had a good thing, here. Safety, companionship, good works, a chance to improve the world… And if he shied from doing what it took to protect that world, then he deserved none of it. 

With a deep breath, he mounted the stairs and knocked on the door to the Inquisitor's chamber. It was too early in the evening for her to be asleep, and Blackwall was not visiting tonight; he'd checked the stables to be sure before he came here. The guard posted at the foot of the tower had given him a hard look, but knew enough to let him pass. 

"Who is it?" Adaar called through the door. 

"It's Anders," he called back; glancing over his shoulder, he added, "and Cole." 

A bit of shuffling, and the door opened. Dian Adaar had a welcoming smile on her face that belied her imposing stature and wicked horns, and she stood back a little from the door. "Good evening, Anders. Hello, Cole," she said, her voice still surprisingly soft and musical despite her size. 

"Inquisitor." He saluted her a touch haphazardly, with a fist against his heart and a short abbreviated bow. "May I come in?" 

"Of course," Dian ushered him inside. The room beyond was comfortable, well-furnished, but plain rather than opulent; the only place that special attention had been paid to the décor was a shrine to Andraste in one corner that took up nearly a quarter of the room. "And you know, you don't have to call me 'Inquisitor.' That may be well and good for the rest of the Inquisition, but not my friends." 

Anders smiled at the kindness, but the smile faded quickly. Cole followed behind him, silent as a ghost. 

Dian took in his serious demeanor, and her own smile faded. She took one of the chairs over by the fireplace, and gestured him to sit across from her. Anders had noticed that she often did that with people she wanted to put at their ease, so that she wouldn't tower over them during the conversation. With people she was less pleased with, she stayed standing. "What is it?" she said. 

"Lady Adaar..." He sighed as he sat. Cole stayed standing, as he usually did; he was as likely to try to sit or perch on a table or a shelf as a chair.  "There's something I need to tell you. It's about Blackwall." 

Her brows rose in surprise. "Is something going on between the two of you? I thought you were getting along well," she said. Her eyes wandered off to stare into the fire. Another, different smile stole across her lips, and her grey cheeks flushed with a deeper color. "Gordon is so sweet and easy-going, he's been a treasure to me. I've never known a more caring and protective man." 

"No, it's... nothing's going on between us." Anders winced as he said it. "And that's the problem." 

A small frown replaced the dreamy smile, and her gaze returned to sharpen on him. "I don't understand," she said. 

Anders took a deep breath. "Listen... what I'm about to tell you, I really shouldn't tell you. It's a secret that Wardens are not supposed to share with others," he said. "But you deserve to know, you need to know. 

"Grey Wardens... we share a connection. And I don't mean that in a romantic, metaphorical sense. Quite the reverse; the truth is much more horrifying. Becoming a Warden of the Grey is more than just swearing an oath. You have to consume part of a darkspawn... not everyone survives it." 

Dian took a sharp breath, and her hand twitched in the gesture of the sunburst, a popular warding gesture in the northern Andrastean lands. "Lady have mercy..." 

"Those that survive are left with a bond," Anders forged onwards. "The same kind of bond that allows the archdemon to commune and control the darkspawn. We can hear them, feel them. We're connected to the archdemon, the darkspawn... and each other. And I can't feel him." He raised his eyes to meet hers. "He's not a Grey Warden. He's not Gordon Blackwall. He's lying to you, Lady. And I don't know why." 

A long, cold silence fell between them. Throughout his speech Dian had slowly become less animate, less relaxed, like a woman slowly turning into stone. She stared at him for a long time, then turned her head a fraction in order to grate out of the side of her mouth: "Cole?" 

"It's true," the spirit boy said, his voice full of a gentle sorrow. "He didn't want to tell you, because he was afraid he'd hurt you." 

" _He_ didn't want to tell me?" Dian's voice edged sharply. "Do you mean Anders, or Blackwall?" 

Cole nodded. "Yes." 

Another moment's silence, then Dian inhaled deeply. Her hands, Anders noticed, gripped the arms of her chair so rigidly that the knuckles were pale and bloodless under the grey skin. "I see," she said, cold as night.

She stood up and turned to face the fireplace, her silhouette casting long shadows throughout the room. When she spoke again, it was in nearly a whisper. "I need to... I need to be alone, please. I have to think about this. What to do, what to..." Those horns bowed, the firelight flickering along the silvered metal like liquid. "Please go." 

For a moment he hesitated; he wasn't sure she ought to be alone right now. But it was not his place to countermand her, so he rose from his own chair and made his way with heavy steps towards the door. After casting one last look over his shoulder, he let himself out. 

Halfway down the flight of stairs, he heard a single sob from the chamber above, and nothing more.

 

* * *

 

 

to be continued...


	13. Leliana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Adaar calls on her Spymaster to get to the bottom of the matter of Blackwall.

 

 Anders couldn't go back to the infirmary after that; he hovered unobtrusively near the foot of the stairs, anxious for Adaar, anxious for Blackwall, for his own self. Cole had vanished, whether to go talk to Adaar or because he was needed more elsewhere Anders couldn't say. 

There was no further sound or movement from the Inquisitor's quarters that night, but in the morning a messenger was sent for Leliana. This in itself was unusual -- Adaar usually preferred to go to people instead of making them come to her. Leliana left after about an hour, looking grim and thoughtful, but neither hide nor horn of the woman herself was seen that day. 

Eventually Anders was called back to the infirmary by his duties; a detachment of Cullen's soldiers returning from the Fallow Mire with a host of infected wounds and a burgeoning outbreak of cholera took up all his attention for the rest of the day and the day after. No word came of any new sortie by the Inquisitor, so it was hard to know whether he (or Blackwall) was deliberately being left behind or not. 

At last, when his infirmary was finally clearing out again, a messenger girl came and asked Anders to report to the Inquisitor's quarters as soon as possible. He stopped to wash his hands, change into a less spattered pair of trousers, and went to answer the summons with an anxious dread in his chest. 

Leliana was there, a raft of papers spread out on the Inquisitor's side table. So was Cole, perched on the corner of the bed. Adaar herself stood in front of the archway leading onto the balcony, looking out over the snow-dazzled mountains, arms crossed in front of her. 

"You were correct," Leliana greeted Anders as the door closed behind him. "The man calling himself Blackwall is nothing of the sort. His real name is Thom Rainier, a not-terribly-reputable mercenary captain from Orlais." 

' _A black wall to shield the self when the sky is rainier,'_   Cole had said. Anders turned towards the boy sharply. "You knew his name all along!" he said. 

"Cole's suggestions were very helpful for my investigation," Leliana said, her expression masked as it ever was. "But now that we know the truth, the question remains as to what to do with it." 

"So he's a mercenary? He wasn't hired to…" Anders trailed off uncertainly. Leliana shook her head. 

"No, he wasn't hired to infiltrate the Inquisition," she answered. "Actually, he hasn't been hired for anything recently. I mentioned that he was not among the more reputable kinds of sellswords. His last mission was several years ago when he and his company was hired to kill the Callier family in '37 Dragon. The entire family, down to the children -- there were no survivors." 

She paused for a moment, a sick silence hung in the air. Cole sat like a statue, white as a sheet and unmoving. 

"Orlais still has a warrant out for his execution," Dian said, speaking for the first time, still addressing the empty air. "But instead, it seems the question has landed in our hands." 

She turned around and looked at Anders. Her eyes were red-rimmed and bruised, the lavender color of her iris reflecting the shadows that hollowed her cheeks. "You tell me, Anders," she said quietly. "What does Justice require?" 

The answers rose in him unbidden, without having to consider the words. "Balance," he said readily. "Reparations for the victims, so that they will not be left bereft. An assurance that the criminal will not harm anyone again." 

"But does..." Dian faltered. "Does… the criminal have to be executed, to see justice done?" 

"No." Anders shook his head quickly. "Penitence, if they are capable of it. Imprisonment, if they are not. Execution if they cannot be safely held." 

"The children are gone now," Cole chimed in, his voice sad. "They don't care that he's sorry. He won't do it again… but that doesn't help the children." 

"Not to them, perhaps." Anders said. "But people still need to see that justice has been done." 

Dian bent her head. "You said there were no survivors," she said finally. "What reparations can there be for his victims?"  
"I can look into it," Leliana put in. "See if there is surviving kin, and if so what their interest in the matter may be." 

"If there are none…" Anders hesitated. "Then reparations must be paid to society at large." 

Dian buried her face in her hands and stood there for a moment, shoulders shaking slightly. Anders and Leliana shared an uncomfortable glance, and Cole stirred, but lapsed back into stillness. 

"I don't know what I should do," Dian admitted at last, raising a face streaked with fresh tears. Anders had never before heard her sound so lost, so forlorn. 

"Your judgments have always been sound before," he said encouragingly. "You are the Herald, you are the Inquisitor. Whatever you do will be right." 

Dian shook her head. "The criminal has never been my lover before. How can I possibly trust myself?" 

Anders sighed. "I hate to say this, Lady, but his crimes are nowhere near on the scale of mine. If you could find it in yourself to spare my life, then it certainly could not be wrong to spare his." 

"The judgments of the Maker are swift and harsh," Leliana offered. "We are all still paying the penalty for the hubris of the magisters fifteen hundred years ago. But Andraste is different. She sought to intercede for us with the Maker. She pled for mercy for our sakes, for forgiveness, and she pleads with him still. So the question really is: do you speak in this for the Maker, or for Andraste?" 

Dian considered this for a long moment, then nodded. "Thank you," she said. She sighed. "Thank you for all of your help. But the final decision must be mine… as it always had to be. Please let me be alone for a while." 

The three of them filed out reluctantly. At the bottom of the stairs Anders turned back to the infirmary, but Leliana unexpectedly caught his arm. When he looked at her in surprise, she tilted her head towards a nearby empty room, and he followed her gesture with some trepidation. 

"I'm given to understand that this was your doing," Leliana said in a soft voice, once they were alone. "Uncovering the truth about Blackwall." 

"Cole knew before I did," Anders pointed out uneasily. 

"But he would not have approached the Inquisitor on his own, correct?" Leliana asked, and he reluctantly nodded. "Then we still have you to thank. You did a good thing here, Anders." 

"Did I really?" he said morbidly, thinking of Adaar's tears, of Blackwall's… Rainier's likely fate. 

"Yes," she said firmly. "Blackwall's story was too full of holes to stand up forever, now that the Inquisition has so many eyes upon us. It was only a matter of time before the truth came out. Better it should be known now, when it is still early and the consequences can be dealt with by us privately, than later in some manner beyond our control. 

"Imagine if some old associate or victim of Rainier had recognized him with the Herald and denounced her in public!" She shuddered at the thought. "The damage to the Inquisition's reputation would be severe. To say nothing of the anguish and it would have caused her, to endure such public humiliation on top of such personal betrayal." 

"I... I suppose you're right," Anders admitted. 

"So you have _my_   thanks for certain," Leliana said firmly. "It was my failure of intelligence that allowed Rainier to slip past me. If my failure had caused a problem for the Herald... I would not be able to forgive myself." 

"I'm just glad some good came of it. I didn't want to hurt her, you know," Anders said unhappily. "I'm a healer, for Maker's sake! But it seems like hurting people is all I do." 

Leliana leaned back against the wall, watching him with a keen, speculative gaze. "You do what is necessary," she said at last. "What others shrink from. But the consequences of leaving them undone would be far more catastrophic. You take the sin upon yourself, so that others won't have to. We have more in common than you think, Anders." 

"I..." He was at a loss to respond to that. "Thank you?" 

Leliana smiled slightly. It didn't seem to be an expression that came easily to her. "You don't need to sound so shocked," she said, gently chiding. "If only for the sake of my dear Warden's affection for you, Anders, I would have protected you from harm regardless of my own feelings. But you are not so badly stained as you believe. Your life didn't end in Kirkwall, your story is still being written. When I look at how far you've come, how much you've accomplished... I can almost believe in redemption." 

She seemed to be speaking to herself as much as to him, her gaze lost and faraway. Her words sent a shiver down his back, raising the hair on his arms. This time, he truly did not know what to say. 

At last Leliana stirred, and gave him another small smile. "The Herald has put her faith in you and I believe she was right to do so," she said. She touched his shoulder, then started towards the door. "Trust in her, if you cannot trust in yourself." 

"I could say the same for you!" Anders called after her. She hesitated for a moment, but kept on going without looking back.

 

* * *

 

 

to be continued...


	14. Blackwall III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Blackwall's Very Bad Day comes to a conclusion.

  
Anders mounted the stairs towards the Skyhold great hall, and noticed with some misgivings that there were few other people around. A messenger had come to the infirmary not long before, asking his presence for 'the judgments of the Herald.' Yet unlike all of the other judgments the Inquisitor had performed -- including his own -- this one seemed to be private, without the general public in attendance.

He stopped in the antechamber, arrested by the sight of the people gathered there. Blackwall was there, as was Leliana -- and, somewhat to his surprise, Iron Bull. The Iron Bull leaned up against the wall behind him, his pose and expression casual but his gaze sharp. Why had Adaar chosen to bring him into this? For support, insight, or perhaps just to make sure that Blackwall didn't run? Either way, it was hard to read past his air of affability to discern what he really thought of what was going on.

One look at Blackwall's face told him everything. The warrior didn't look bewildered, or anxious, or angry -- his shoulders were slumped, his back hunched, and the face beneath the bushy beard was wracked with lines of guilt and grief. He had the look of a broken man, who knew his fate and was resigned to it.

It was all too familiar a feeling to Anders. After a moment's hesitation, he swallowed and stepped across the antechamber to Blackwall's side. "Listen," he said, hating himself even as he did so. He'd ruined Blackwall's life, blown open his secret, probably destroyed his chances with Adaar; he wouldn't blame the man if wanted to hear nothing from Anders ever again. But still, he had to say it. "I want you to know that I'm… sorry for how this turned out. I didn't wish any harm on you, on anyone."

Blackwall hunched down further, but after a moment, he grunted out, "I know." He looked up at Anders, his eyes dull and face drooping. "You… I don't blame you."

"You don't?" Anders said, startled.

"No… telling her the truth…" He slumped even further. "It's the right thing to do. I should have told her months ago… I _meant_ to, but I just didn't have the strength. You… had the strength I lacked."

Anders nodded; the lump in his throat blocked any further speech. He backed away, and the Iron Bull met his gaze and gave a wave of his hand like a lazy, informal salute.

The doors to the hall opened, and they all turned to look as Josephine stuck her head out of the doorway and beckoned them inside. "The Inquisitor is ready to begin," she said, her softly accented voice struggling for a neutral tone.

Blackwall stood up, keeping his head bowed, and trudged into the great hall. No chains for him, Anders noticed, although the Iron Bull shadowed him all the way in. For such a big man, he did a remarkable job of making himself unobtrusive, Anders thought.

After some hesitation, Anders followed them in. The messenger had summoned him, after all; his testimony as a Gray Warden might be required. He wished Cole were here, to confirm his story if needed.

It wasn't needed. Blackwall -- or Thom Rainier -- denied nothing. Neither the lie about his identity, nor the crimes for which he had initially been wanted. Nor was he a Gray Warden, although he insisted that he had in truth been recruited as one -- the real Warden-Constable Gordon Blackwall had met him in a tavern while on the run and decided to take him on as a recruit. During their return journey to Val Chevin, the real Blackwall had been killed by darkspawn and Rainier had made the impulsive decision to take his place.

Anders had no trouble believing this account of things -- either that the Grey Wardens would choose to recruit a wanted criminal if they showed promising skills, that the real Blackwall was more likely to have met an untimely end at the hands of darkspawn than his prospective recruit, or that the criminal Rainier would have felt such an overpowering desire to stop being himself and start over as a new man. None of the testimony had the feel of a lie -- over the years since joining with Justice, he'd found that he could almost always tell truth from lies. Belatedly, he wondered if that ability was why Dian had asked him to attend.

The cross-examination was brief, conducted mostly by Leliana while Adaar sat stone-faced on the throne. It was the ornate monstrosity fashioned after the flames of a pyre that Anders remembered seeing from his own judging, although it seemed today that all the energy and animation had been drawn out of the metal itself, leaving the blades of fire frozen and unmoving.

At last the inquiry came to a close, and all present -- Josephine, Leliana, and the Iron Bull -- looked up to the Inquisitor for a conclusion. After a long silence she stirred, and her voice filled the empty hall.

"Gordon Blackwall is dead," she said, the words ringing out like drawn steel. "He died with honor, serving with the Inquisition to defend the world from Corypheus. Word of his sacrifice will be spread across all the land." At this she glanced over at Bull, who met her eyes and nodded in understanding.

"For obvious reasons, you cannot remain in Skyhold any longer." Her cool, stony eyes settled back on Rainier. "You must depart this keep by nightfall, and anything left behind will be destroyed on Blackwall's pyre."

Rainier bowed his head, eyes squeezing closed. Anders saw a flicker of quick motion at Dian's throat, like a gulp of air. "However..." she said. "If Thom Rainier were to come to Skyhold, seeking to lay down his life for the cause and serve the Maker and his bride in penance for his sins... then he would find a place here. If he were willing to face the censure of those whom he deceived, those he has wronged, then he could have that chance.

"All who seek to stand against evil are welcome. No matter your sins, Andraste makes it clear: With a penitent soul, you can be forgiven. With a brave and compassionate heart, you are not unworthy of love."

Rainier looked up, stunned and disbelieving. Anders could sympathize. Josephine looked like she might cry, and even the Bull cracked a small smile.

"I would recommend a change of costume... and a shave," Leliana told him dryly.

"Thank you," Rainier choked out, his voice barely a whisper. "Thank you, my lady… Inquisitor."

 

* * *

 

 

  
Anders knocked on the door to Adaar's quarters, hoping that she would be willing to see him quickly; his hand was already going numb from the tin he carried. "Lady Adaar?" he called out. "It's me, Anders."

After a moment she opened the door; her eyes were red again from weeping. "Oh, Anders," she said, sounding tired. "Come in… can I help you?"

He cleared his throat. "Actually, Lady, I was hoping I could help you," he said. "You've had a pretty trying day." Pretty much the only one whose day had been worse was Thom Rainier; he had left Skyhold already, and the Bull's Chargers were already in the tavern beginning to spread stories of "Blackwall's" heroic death.

Dian shook her head. "I've lived through worse. I don't know why this should hit me so hard," she said, a touch of desolation in her voice. "I tried to do the right thing, I think I did the right thing, but…"

Anders nodded understanding. "But it still feels bad," he said. "Missing him, knowing it's your own actions that drove him away; that you hurt the one you cared about, however necessary."

Dian nodded. "Yes," she said, almost a whisper. "It does feel bad."

"I don't think it would be a lot of help to tell you that you did the right thing, or try to suggest that everything will get better later on," he said. "For tonight, all you can really do is try to think of other things, and try to feel a little better."

"How?" she said despairingly.

"Well, that's what I brought this for." Anders held out the tin he carried, frost creeping up the sides. An oversized metal spoon stuck out from the corner, under the lid. "Here."

Dian took it, frowning slightly in perplexity; she moved the top off and sniffed, and her eyes widened. "Chocolate?" she exclaimed. "And… is that alcohol I smell?"

"Well, yes, but only a bit," Anders admitted. "I had to get the chocolate from Josie, and a few other ingredients from the kitchens, but… It's an old Circle recipe, there's not an apprentice who doesn't learn it from the time they start casting frost spells. It's called creamed ice, and you can mix it with fruit, cheese, yogurt… or chocolate. In the Circles it's said that there's no better remedy for a broken heart."

Dian smiled. She opened the tin and took up the spoon, eyeing the ladleful of brown goop with a doubtful gaze for a moment before she licked it. Her eyes widened. "It's amazing!" she exclaimed.

Anders smirked. "What can I say, magic has its uses," he boasted.

"It certainly does." Dian sat down on the couch in front of her fireplace, the tin seeming much smaller in her hands. She looked up at him and managed a small smile. "Thank you, Anders."

"It was the least I could do," he mumbled. "After… all the trouble."

"It's enough," she said. "That you cared."

They sat in silence for a few moments, consuming the cold treat in small nibbles. At length, the peace was broken by a small sniffle.

"Do you think he'll come back?" she asked, and Anders perched on the back of the couch and laid a hand on her shoulder.

"With you to come back to," he said, "I'm certain of it."

 

* * *

 

~to be continued...

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be more vignettes in this series, but they will focus on other characters now that the question of Blackwall is taken care of.


End file.
